So that was it really, Charles thought to himself as he sat in the cramped Coroner’s Court. An unfortunate accident, which no one could have foreseen. The Coroner was bound to bring in a verdict of death by misadventure, with recommendations that safety precautions in the theatre should be tightened up.
Charles had watched the inquest with interest. Since his involvement in the strange affair of Marius Steen, violent death had begun to exercise an almost unhealthy fascination on him. Frances disapproved of this new hobby with its inevitable by-product of detective investigation, but that didn’t stop her from following the inquest proceedings with consuming interest. It was a welcome diversion. Once you had exhausted Sun ’n’ Funtime and the Amusement Arcade, there was not a lot to do during a wet September in Hunstanton.
The little Coroner’s Court was full, with intrigued members of the Sun ’n’ Funtime company and representatives of the nation’s Press, for whom the death of a momentarily popular comedian carried a brief news value. Bill Peaky’s widow was also present, an attractive blonde girl in a black suede coat.
Apart from the Entertainments Officer, evidence was given by the policeman who had first been called to the scene of the accident, by the Police Surgeon who had examined Peaky’s body, by the resident Theatre Electrician and by Charles (known as Chox) Morton, who, as Road Manager for Mixed Bathing, was responsible for the group’s equipment.
Morton was an emaciated individual in dirty blue jeans and a colourless pullover. His pale sunken face was curtained with long, straggly brown hair. He seemed to be in a state of high nervous tension, constantly interlocking and unwinding his fingers as he gave his evidence. No doubt he was in a blue funk in case he should be held responsible for the faulty equipment.
The only other person to be questioned was Miffy Turtle, Peaky’s manager, who was asked whether his client was usually careless with his electrical equipment. Turtle revealed that Peaky was most punctilious about safety and made a habit of checking out his guitar during the interval with a device known as a Martindale Ringmain Tester. He could only assume that the arrival of the well-known agent Dickie Peck in his dressing-room had led Peaky to omit his usual interval routine.
As anticipated, the Coroner brought in a verdict of death by misadventure, with recommendations that safety precautions in the theatre should be tightened up.
As Charles and Frances were leaving the Coroner’s Court they heard someone bustling to catch up with them through the crush. They turned to see the pianist, Norman del Rosa, auburn wig gleaming over flushed face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘but it is Charles Paris, isn’t it?’
Charles admitted it was.
‘Norman del Rosa. We worked together on a pantomime in Worthing, remember. Cinderella. You gave your Baron Hardup.’
‘Ah yes,’ Charles agreed vaguely. He remembered the pantomime but he couldn’t remember any Norman del Rosa being involved in it.
His face must have betrayed his ignorance. ‘Oh, you remember, Charles. You were with that little dancer, Jacqui, who — ’
‘I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Frances,’ Charles interposed hastily. Jacqui had been one of his early peccadilloes (who, surprisingly, had turned up again in the Marius Steen case), and he did not particularly want Frances reminded of her. ‘I’m sorry, Norman, I really can’t recall — ’
‘Of course, the name. I was called Bobby Marquette then.’
‘Ah yes. It comes back. I’m so sorry. With the change of name and. .’ He just stopped himself from saying ‘that frightful wig.’ ‘And. . er. . things, I just didn’t make the connection.’
‘Think nothing of it, dear boy. Delighted to see you.’
At that moment they were joined by the lovely Vita Maureen, who (surprise, surprise) turned out to be Norman del Rosa’s wife. After exchanges of pleasantries, since the musical double act showed no signs of leaving, Charles commented conversationally, ‘Nasty business, this.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ cooed Vita Maureen tragically, ‘you have no idea, but no idea. What it’s been like being in the company for the last few days. Hell, darling, isn’t the word.’
‘Everyone pretty upset over Peaky’s death, you mean?’
‘But devastated, darling.’
‘He was popular in the company, was he?’ Charles’ curiosity to find out the background to the death could not be contained.
‘Oh, everyone loves a star, don’t they, darling?’
From his experience in the theatre, particularly from working with an egomaniac called Christopher Milton, Charles very much questioned the truth of this assertion. Norman del Rosa also seemed to have misgivings. ‘Well, my love, I’m not sure that — ’
But his wife did not let him get into the flow of his objection. ‘It really is such a pleasure to meet you both,’ she interrupted. ‘Quite honestly, there are so few people of one’s type in a place like this. You must come and have tea with us on Sunday. You will still be here, won’t you?’
And before Charles and Frances had time to marshal their excuses, they were committed to tea at four o’clock on Sunday at the Devereux Hotel.
When they got back to the Waves Crest Guest House, Charles found a message asking him to ring his agent.
This was almost unprecedented. Maurice Skellern was the laziest agent in the business. Charles only stayed with him because he had no hopes of dramatic changes in his acting career and because he was too soft to face the inevitable scene of severing their association. Besides, Maurice was quite amusing and a useful fund of theatrical gossip. He never got any of his clients jobs, but he did keep them up to date with who was sleeping with who and how. Charles rang up about once a fortnight for his dose of backstage dirt.
But for Maurice to ring him. . that really was something. Charles could not completely bottle up a bubble of excitement as he dialled the familiar number on the Waves Crest payphone.
As usual Maurice went through his masquerade of pretending that the phone was being answered, not by him, but by one of a horde of forelock-tugging underlings.
Charles, however, knew that the agency was a one-man operation. ‘OK, Maurice, cut the pantomime. It’s me, Charles. What gives?’
‘Ah, Charles. Thank you for ringing back,’ said Maurice grandly, as if it were an everyday occurrence. ‘I’ve got you a telly.’
‘A telly?’ Good God. Was it possible? Could rivers flow uphill? Had Maurice Skellern undergone a personality transplant and joined that small elite of agents who actually get work for their clients? ‘What is it?’
‘It’s an Alexander Harvey Show,’ Maurice dropped casually.
‘An Alexander Harvey Show?’ Charles couldn’t control the great surge of excitement he felt at the words. At last he was going to be recognized, not just as an adequate support player, but as a personality in his own right. Alexander Harvey hosted the most successful chat-show in the country, which kept millions glued to their armchairs every Saturday night to watch the famous coruscate with wit in a spontaneous atmosphere of carefully rehearsed ad libs. And now the quicksilver repartee of Charles Paris was at last to be accorded its proper recognition. He was to be a guest on the Alexander Harvey Show. ‘When is it, Maurice?’
‘Three weeks Saturday.’ Then the agent added maliciously, ‘Why, have you got something else big on?’
‘Ha ha. No, of course I haven’t. Because my bloody agent never puts me up for anything, doesn’t know any important casting directors and is so in touch with the world of theatre that he thought the recent opening of Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex was a world premiere!’
‘Now, Charles, that was a genuine mistake. And it’s very hurtful when you dismiss my efforts in that cavalier manner. After all, I told you about the auditions for the modern dress Look Back in Anger in Colchester. And I’ve just got you this telly.’